


She's over-bored and self-assured

by TheonlyDan



Series: Little pearls, you're golden [6]
Category: Nightwish, Real Person Fiction, Sharja, Within Temptation (Band)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Relationships, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Infidelity, Masturbation, Morally Ambiguous Character, Pining, Shower Sex, Suburban AU, how the hell did I come up with a suburban au, over 4000 words of smut and I tried, smut is in chapter 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:08:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26212399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheonlyDan/pseuds/TheonlyDan
Summary: Sharja in suburban AU=bootleg-sapphism.
Relationships: Marcelo Cabuli/Tarja Turunen, Sharon den Adel/Robert Westerholt, Sharon den Adel/Tarja Turunen
Series: Little pearls, you're golden [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2134146
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	1. Foreplay

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from Smells Like Teen Spirit by the legendary Nirvana.  
> This reinvention is purely for recreational use. I do not own any of the characters. All faults are mine and mine alone.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You have something on your face.”  
> Sharon says, swiping her index finger on Tarja’s jaw towards her chin. Her hand is warm. Soft. Certain. Tarja remembers to breathe afterward. The brunet looks amused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically Tarja got mad because Sharon kept on flirting with her (but Tarja secretly liked it?)

The den Adels’ reputation proceeds itself. According to the gossip, the wife is a slut, and the husband is a drunk. The children? They say they’ve sent them far off to fancy boarding schools. And that is a _bad_ move here—in this picturesque suburban community, children’s education is _the_ trend. Playdates are arranged in meticulous timetables. Parent-teacher conferences are like cutthroat board meetings. School functions are pressure-cookers. Every take-home assignment has to be perfect. Every bake sale is a war among moms (occasionally dads) who’d spend a day in the kitchen, just to make the best cupcakes.

Tarja doesn’t feel comfortable in this new neighborhood. She just wants Naomi to have a happy, carefree childhood. Her educational methods seem out-of-place and date, compared to other eager parents. Marcelo, her husband, recently got promoted from cubical to office. He insists on a bigger house, a bigger car, and a better school. Tarja has quitted her job—a bookstore clerk—to help her family with the transition. Now it appears Tarja’s jobless status will stay permanent. Luckily, their new community _honors_ stay-at-home moms.

Not so lucky for the den Adels. To be precise, _Sharon_ den Adel. She is a working mom. How unfortunate is that?

One month after moving in, and another month of wondering about the mysterious woman, Tarja finally meets her.

***

The coffee is lukewarm in her hands. Holding the ear of the mug, Tarja moves the small table from the porch. She inspects the windowpanes. Maybe she should get a tape measure here. She wants to take down the frame and replace it with things from IKEA. Or maybe she’ll just repaint the whole thing.

Their new house is in fine shape; however, the homier the merrier. Tarja wants her family to feel safe and comfortable.

She shifts the table back and leans onto the handrails of the veranda. The morning is starting to get hot. The weather here is warm and dry. Tarja stares at their new lawn, the green-yellow shrubs planted by the previous owner, the driveway, to the sidewalk alongside the road. Instead of appreciating the view, Tarja worries about Naomi.

Her daughter is a meek, angelic thing. She is why Tarja vetoed on moving here.

God, Naomi is only _seven_.

But Marcelo persists. He says it’ll be convenient for Naomi to start elementary school here. A fresh start.

The fact that Tarja compromises in the end are saying something. Maybe Naomi has gotten her gene of docility.

Someone breaks her wistful thinking. It’s a brunet jogging along the sidewalk. Tarja could see sweat from her skin, reflecting the sun.

The brunet is lean and fit, in a white tank-top and a pair of shorts. Her hair is tied up. In a ponytail maybe. Tarja can’t pinpoint what catches her attention. But she is more than interested when suddenly, her neighbor emerges from her house. It’s like she is waiting for the brunet. Tarja tries to remember what her neighbor’s name is. Is it Anny or Anette?

It doesn’t matter. “Ann” storms down the stairs and calls for the stranger. She is ignored. The stranger turns around when Ann reaches her shoulder. Minutes into their conversation, Ann yells something angrily into the brunet’s face. The words are lost to Tarja. She takes another sip of her coffee. It’s cold. Maybe she should get inside the house.

But it’s too late. Ann notices Tarja. The brunet woman follows Ann’s gaze and turns around. Tarja feels uneasy under the attention. She is obliged to greet them since she’s just made eye-contact, but she doesn’t want to disturb their conversation (fight).

The stranger walks away. Ann follows, not giving up their talk. Tarja knows it’ll be rude now if she didn’t do anything. She’ll try to be a peacekeeper then.

Barefoot and reluctant, 20 steps are all it takes for Tarja to meet the duo in the middle of the sidewalk.

“Hey, Ann. Hi, how do you do?” Tarja nods at the pair. There’s tension in the air. Ann has a smile plastered on her face. Tarja can’t afford to get a better look at the stranger. All she can tell is that the brunet isn’t smiling. “Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, yeah. We are good. This is Tarja, she’s just moved in with her husband and daughter.”

Ann introduces flamboyantly. Tarja cringes. She’s not sure if she wants the stranger to know that.

The brunet seems unaffected.

“I know.” She answers tersely. Tarja’s looks at the brunet. She is beautiful. Really, _really_ beautiful. The kind of woman you see on magazine covers and remember her face. “I’m Sharon. But I guess you’ve already heard about me. Small town, huh?”

The brunet then throws an accusing stare at Ann’s direction. Her neighbor bristles, but hides the anger with a broader smile. Before Ann could say anything, Tarja quickly asks the brunet, “Would you like some water? It seems that you have been running for quite some time.”

“Sure.”

Sharon doesn’t wait for any response. She walks away towards Tarja’s house.

“Quite the character.”

Tarja manages, flashing Ann a smile and hopes it’s not patronizing. Ann sighs a little.

“I hope your _husband_ isn’t home.”

Ann turns on her heels bitterly and walks away. Tarja frowns. Then she remembers she now has a guest to tend to.

***

“Please, make yourself comfortable.” Tarja finishes her coffee in one quick swig, making her way to the kitchen, “Would you like some banana as well?”

“Oh great, thanks for the offer. You work out often?” Sharon follows her, “Seems like you know some exercise hacks.”

“I try to. Is tap water ok?” Tarja tiptoes, opening the cupboard to get a glass, “There are some mineral ones in the fridge. But I think it’ll be too cold.”

“That’s thoughtful of you. I’ll take tap then.”

Silence ensues. Tarja rolls up her sleeves, fills the glass and hands it over to Sharon. The brunet watches her. Sharon’s attention feels sharp and attentive. The colors of her eyes are a mixture of bronze, auburn, and brown. Tarja finds a constellation of freckles on her cheeks. Now indoor, Sharon’s skin is olive-toned.

When Sharon’s lips touch the rim of glass Tarja remembers what she’s about to do. She goes for the cabinet. The banana is ripe; it comes off its stem without much effort.

Sharon is different from the rest of the people here. She doesn’t try to strike unnecessary conversations. Her nonchalance puts Tarja strangely at ease.

Sharon is still staring when Tarja hands her the fruit.

“So, what happens back there?”

Tarja forgoes the “I-don’t-mean-to-pry” bullshit because she knows she’s fucking prying now. Sharon seems like someone who’ll cut to the chase, too.

Sharon peels the banana wordlessly. Her nails are trimmed short. She is wearing her hair into a bun, not a ponytail. Tarja tucks her hands into her pockets and leans on the counter.

“Ann was telling me to get away from her wife. So, thanks for inviting me in so I won’t have to take more of that shit.” Sharon takes a dainty bite of the white flesh, “Apparently she thinks I’m seducing Floor.”

“Well, are you?”

Tarja has no idea where that response comes from. The question sounds spontaneous. It’s supposed to be a joke. Sharon smirks, swallowing the sweetness. Tarja likes her smile. It’s the most genuine one she’s received lately.

“Although I don’t oppose to women taller than me…”

She takes another chunk out of the soft of the fruit. Her teeth are pearly-white. She chews with her mouth closed.

Tarja can see the brunet is also assessing her. Tarja is in a black Nirvana t-shirt, a flannel that goes two sizes bigger (she grabs it from her husband’s closet), and a pair of old jeans. No shoes, no makeup, no accessories.

Which is a rare sight. Sharon cocks her head as she swallows. Her eyes are gleaming with curiosity.

“I prefer someone closer to my height.”

She finishes her statement. Tarja’s mouth feels dry. She rinses her mug from the coffee stain, then gets herself a cup of water.

“You’re not from here, aren’t you?” Sharon is halfway done with the banana, “I mean, to see you is so refreshing. I’m sick of seeing blonde moms prancing around in heels, bragging on and on about their kids and everything. Plus, you have an exotic face, like a European.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Tarja articulates, “I do have close relatives who are still in Finland.”

“Cool.” Sharon nods pensively, “That’s cool. Mine is from the Netherlands. Now we have something in common.”

Tarja smiles. She sips the water and stares at a random spot behind Sharon. From the corner of Tarja’s eye, she notices that Sharon is still gazing at her. But when she looks back, she finds Sharon observing her living room.

“You keep your house spotless.”

Sharon comments. Tarja shifts in her stance. She raises the mug to her lips.

“I’m a cleaning-addict.”

“I need to learn that from you.”

“It’s therapeutic, contrary to popular belief.”

“ _And_ a great sense of humor.” Sharon puts the banana peel and the empty glass on the counter, “I like you already.”

Tarja gives a two-finger salute.

“I aim to please.”

***

The next morning Tarja has the table removed from the porch. Between kneeling and crouching, she splays a layer of newspaper on the floor. It’s going to catch the old paint she’s about to scrape off from the window.

Her tools are tucked in her overalls, an old one which her dad gave her when she turned 17. She was supposed to be a carpenter. Family business. But then she made different decisions. Drastic ones. Aren’t people all young and desperate once?

“Hey.”

Tarja jerks her head towards the uninvited voice. It’s Sharon. She stands up to greet her. Sharon is standing on the stairs.

“Sorry if I startled you. Here.” Sharon ascends and hands her a cup of Starbucks. Tarja pulls the AirPods out of her ears and drops them into her front pocket. She takes the cup by the cup sleeve in case it’s hot. It Is. Their fingers get tangled up in the process. “It’s for yesterday.”

“Oh, thanks. It’s really nothing.” _It’s just water and banana._ Tarja stares at Sharon. Her hair is done in perfect waves, spilling down her shoulders, and her makeup is exquisite. A pair of sunglasses is dangling from her silk red blouse. Designer jeans, Gucci leather belt, Dr. Martens heeled boots. “You going to work?”

“Yeah. I’m on my way there. Yesterday was a disaster. Turned out I have a bunch of incompetent fools working for me.” Sharon rakes her hair from her face, her gaze lingering on Tarja’s form, “Nice outfit. Denim suits you.”

“Likewise.” Tarja racks her brain for things to say, “I’m just trying to redo the windowpanes.” She gestures the mess beside her, then looks into Sharon’s eyes again, “But I won’t bore you with the details. You must be in a hurry.”

“No. Not at all. Sure they can handle my absence long enough to not burn the whole company down.”

The smile on Sharon’s face is warm but indecipherable. The rest of her features are shadowed. Tarja feels small in the presence of Sharon.

Sharon suddenly steps forward. Tarja takes a step back accordingly. But the porch is just this wide. Eventually, Tarja has her back against the wall. Sharon smells like expensive perfumes in department stores.

“You have something on your face.”

Sharon says, swiping her index finger on Tarja’s jaw towards her chin. Her hand is warm. Soft. Certain. Tarja remembers to breathe afterward. The brunet looks amused.

“It’s probably peanut butter.” Staring the brown tip of Sharon’s finger, Tarja mutters, “We had peanut butter and jelly sandwich for breakfast.”

“Really?” Sharon dips her finger into her mouth, careful not to ruin her lipstick, “Hmmm. Yes, you did.”

Then she turns around, sashays towards her Tesla, and disappears into the black car. Tarja is still pressed on the cool wall. She finds it comfortable because she feels too warm. The coffee is also warm in her hands.

The morning bleeds into noon. Tarja dumps the beverage into the sink after she takes a sip. She only takes her coffee black.

***

The next morning Sharon doesn’t jog by. Tarja finishes up the window and gazes at the handrails. They’re fine. But it can be better. She wants to paint it in the same shade as the window frame.

She consults her family at dinner. Naomi says she wants it black. Tarja chuckles and placates her with light gray. Marcelo says nothing except that he’s tired and needs to go to bed early.

Tarja opens a bottle of wine for a Friday night. After the third glass, she stumbles into the kitchen to fish out the Starbucks from the recycling bag.

After the fourth glass, Tarja saves the number on the side of the cup into her phone.

***

On Saturday she takes Naomi to the hardware store to pick a color for their handrail. Marcel goes golfing with his boss and colleagues (rivals).

Then they go grocery shopping and bump into some nosy parents in Naomi’s class. She buys herself and Naomi a pint of ice cream for that.

***

On Sunday they start to work on the rails. Naomi gets tired pretty soon. She practices the piano and watches her favorite cartoon. Tarja finishes the task alone. Marcelo grouses that they should’ve hired someone to do it.

Then it goes again: Tarja saying that she’s entitled to contribute to this family. Marcelo saying she’s unsatisfied about being jobless. Tarja says _can’t you see_ _I’m willing to give up everything for my family_. Marcelo argues _if you think you have “sacrificed” so much, you’re still as selfish_. And when it comes to selfish how can Marcelo _not_ talk about Tarja’s affair and drug-use? And how can Tarja not stress that she was only a teenager?

The past reenacts itself into hell.

Tarja’s band. Marcelo’s studies. Tarja’s book. Marcelo’s job. _Naomi._ Tarja’s bookstore. Marcelo’s career. Moving south.

But they never fight in front of their daughter. Not once.

***

The phone number she saved on Friday called. Late night.

“Hello.”

“Hi.”

It’s a distinctive female voice. Smooth and melodic. Slightly hoarse. Tarja feels the tension being lifted from her shoulders at Sharon’s voice.

“You know who I am?”

“You sound a bit mature for a Starbucks barista.”

Sharon laughs at Tarja’s remark. Tarja sits up in her bed. Marcelo is sleeping in the guest bedroom. The vacancy beside her seems to enlarge itself in the dark.

“How’s your weekend?”

Sharon asks. Her background is quiet.

“Manageable. You?”

“Same old, same old.” And after a beat, “Did I wake you from your sleep?”

“No. I am lying awake.”

“Lucky me.”

“How did you get my number?”

“From Floor. Floor got it from Anette.”

Tarja hums. Some rustling comes from the other end of the phone.

“Do you like the coffee?”

“To tell you the truth—” Tarja rises from her bed. She turns on the bedside lamp, then squints her eyes at the light, “—I never take it with sugar.”

“Oh.” Sharon doesn’t sound defeated, “Not even a splash of milk? You take it plain? Americano? Or is it espresso?”

“Easy, easy.” Tarja smiles, wider than she should be, “I’m having a hunch that you’re dropping by again. This time with _black_ coffee.”

“Maybe I will. Where are you going?”

Tarja walks towards the stairs, feet padding on the cool wooden floor.

“Kitchen. To make myself a drink.”

“I’m having some rosé.” Sharon pauses. A series of soft _clangs_ echoes through the speaker. Tarja guesses it’s Sharon taking a sip. “What are you having?”

“Maybe some Spanish wine.”

“Red?”

“Always.”

Tarja puts Sharon on speaker and lays her phone on the counter. She wonders briefly if she should drink straight from the bottle, but then tosses the idea away. She can’t risk a hangover.

“You also don’t strike me as a beer-person. Do you drink beer?”

“You know too much.” Tarja watches the ruby liquid instilling into her coffee mug. She’s too lazy to get a proper glass. “Should I be concerned?”

Sharon stays silent. Tarja wonders if she had gone too far.

“What’s your deal?”

“Pardon?” Tarja switches her phone back and holds it to her ear. She hears the question well. She’s stalling to come up with a response, “I just put you back from speaker so I didn’t—”

“What’s your agenda here?”

“I…like everybody else. I don’t understand.” Tarja’s heart is thumping, and it’s not because of the wine, “I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?”

“No! God no, I—” A rush of laughter rings through, and it sounds odd for Sharon to be nervous. Tarja starts to climb the stairs, “You’re actually the only person here that I want to get to know. It’s just, I can’t figure you out.”

“And it’s frustrating, isn’t it?” Tarja enters the master bedroom. The blinds are shut, but she can tell that the moon is eclipsed by the clouds tonight. She closes the door with a click. “You know, I can ask you the same. Not stuff like how you like your drinks, but things like what makes you so confident, that you think you can always get what you want?”

Tarja is no longer playing defense, just playing fair. She waits for those words to sink in. She sets her drink on the bedside table, wondering if she should end the call.

But then Sharon sighs. Tarja almost regrets for being so straightforward.

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” Sharon gulps, a tiny, audible sound that puts Tarja on a guilt trip. “Can we start over? I really like you.”

There’s nothing about Sharon that Tarja likes, all but her frankness. And it’s already too hard to find.

“Of course.” Tarja says quietly, “I apologize if I was too harsh.”

“No, don’t say that.” Sharon sounds relieved, “I needed it. You reminded me perfectly that not everyone I meet wants to fuck me.”

Tarja chokes on her wine. And she neither confirms nor denies Sharon’s statement.

“Can I see you tomorrow?”

Tarja hesitates for a second. There are a million reasons to say no, but she just doesn’t see why not. It must be the wine.

“Ok.” Tarja turns off the lamp. The moonlight discolors her mattress pale, “You sure your employees can handle another morning without you?”

“I’m the CEO. I can do whatever the fuck I want.”


	2. Climax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You sure you don’t wanna know what kind of vibrator I use?”  
> “No! I don’t! Jesus Christ.”  
> “Leave Jesus out of this.” Sharon berates. Tarja rolls her eyes with a smirk, “So what happened tonight? Wait, wait. Let me guess. You caught Floor with the nanny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sharon is great with hugs and kisses so you know what would happen.

"I just don’t think you’re mingling with the right crowd…”

Anett repeats with urgency. Tarja throws another helpless look at her husband, but Marcelo is busy talking with Floor. Stuff about investments and trust funds.

“…you should join our movie night! Or we can hang out. I know the perfect place for manicure. Oh! I know, we can join that new yoga studio just twenty minutes away. Driving, of course.”

It’s official. It’s the fifth time Tarja catches Floor glancing at their nanny. Simone, that’s her name. She’s good with kids. Naomi likes her too. They are doing origami now.

“Sharon is not so bad…she’s interesting to hang out with. But I really, really appreciate your offer.”

Floor excuses herself to go somewhere. That means Marcelo might come to her rescue. Looking into Anett’s big, eager eyes, Tarja reminds herself (again) how friendly she was when they moved here, and how nice it is that Anett invites them over for dinner.

So Tarja can keep the tiredness and impatience at bay.

A text flashes by her phone. She glances at the screen just as Marcelo comes over and joins their conversation. He puts an arm around Tarja’s waist and presses a kiss on her hair. She smiles awkwardly. He’s not good at displaying public affections. It makes him look desperate.

“Ah, here comes the lovely husband. I insist that you teach me some Spanish. Remind me again which part of Argentina you came from?”

Anett is great at keeping a conversation flowing. Tarja frees herself from Marcelo.

“Sorry. I have to take this.”

She murmurs and grabs her phone. After she stands up and walks away with an unread text, she could feel the gazes falling upon her. It feels heavy.

—Having a great time? Bet the party’s LIT

Tarja smirks at the message. For sure Sharon is going to tease her about this. She knows how much Tarja is dreading the dinner with Anett.

Tarja walks herself to the bathroom. Typing her witty comeback, she ignores the weird sounds from the back of the house. She locks herself into the stall.

—U just saved me from manicure, pedicure and yoga

But then she feels it’s not enough. She adds:

—Also we were talking about u

Sharon quickly replies:

—WHAT?!

—What did u guys talk about me?

Tarja is about to text back when something drops and crashes. It sounds like glasses breaking. Tarja frowns and sighs. She unlocks the bathroom door. Now she has to go and check it out.

Tarja is expecting worse when she sees Floor and Simone, picking up the pieces of a plate, kneeling on the kitchen ground. They are both flustered. There’s a button loose on Floor’s collar. Simone’s hair is tousled. Her lipstick is smudged.

There’s a look being exchanged amongst the three. Then wordlessly, Tarja kneels on the ground to help with the mess. Simone prickles herself with a pointy shard. She hisses. Floor quickly takes the redhead’s hand to see the cut, then hurriedly let go when Anett rushes into the kitchen.

Tarja watches as in slow motion, realization bleaches Ann’s face pale, then all sorts of emotions swim by. It’s too painful to watch. Tarja stands up. She fumbles with some excuses to go home, and they are accepted. There are clearly bigger problems to be solved.

Tarja shepherds her family out of her neighbor’s house. Shouts and cries soon shoot through the air. She covers Naomi’s ears when an f-bomb explodes.

“What the hell happened?”

Marcelo asks. He sounds excited rather than worried. Tarja purses her lips as she reaches for their keys.

“They broke some tableware. I’ll tell you the longer version later if you want to know.”

***

Marcelo never asks. Tarja guesses he’s just glad the dinner with the lesbians was over.

She finds her husband’s face unfamiliar. Like a worn-out man-boy. Immature-ish. He is back to sleep in the same bed with her. But Tarja doesn’t feel the difference.

She stares at the ceiling for a while. Then she gets up to call Sharon. She’s probably asleep. But what Tarja has seen tonight is disturbing. Maybe she just needs someone to listen to.

Sharon picks up when Tarja reaches downstairs.

“Girl you didn’t text back. I was worried.”

Her voice is sweet and husky. Tarja gets distracted and pauses before her liquor cabinet.

“Why do you sound so…breathy? Out of breath? Ugh, I don’t know what I’m saying.”

Then Tarja remembers again. She feels like vodka today. She had had enough red at Anett’s.

Tarja pours the translucent liquid into her glass.

“Robert is out of town. So…” Sharon trails off. Tarja waits for her to complete her alibi. She drops in some ice cubes to dilute the drink, and doesn’t care if nobody drinks vodka this way. “So, you know, I decide to spend some _quality_ time with myself.”

Sharon says suggestively. The vodka is strong and heavy. Tarja wants to ask why Sharon is beating around the bush. Then Tarja has to take a large sip of her drink to burn the image she’s summoned up.

“Sharon. Oh my god. Were you _masturbating_?”

“Yeah-huh.” Tarja is wordless. Sharon giggles. Unapologetic. “I have this thing that is just amazing. It makes me come every—”

“Ok, ok! Now I know why you sound so breathless so stop over-explaining it. Too much information.”

“You sure you don’t wanna know what kind of vibrator I use?”

“No! I don’t! Jesus Christ.”

“Leave Jesus out of this.” Sharon berates. Tarja rolls her eyes with a smirk, “So what happened tonight? Wait, wait. Let me guess. You caught Floor with the nanny.”

“How do you know?”

“I could sniff out my own kind.”

Tarja chortles and takes another sip. She never actively asks Sharon about her relationship with Floor. She doesn’t need to. She doesn’t want to know.

Tarja takes out a stool and sits by the counter. The granite surface is tainted yellow with the streetlight.

“Hey, so what’s matter?”

Sharon’s voice smoothens. Soft as silk. Tarja trails her fingertips along the brink of her glass. She remembers the times she wore black nail polish.

Leather and stage lights. Bar fights and secret sex.

“I don’t know. I just…” Tarja doesn’t know her throat is going to knot with emotions. She washes them down with vodka, “It’s not a big deal but I feel…like I can’t breathe properly. Like the things I can’t say is eating me alive from the inside out.”

“Oh, honey.” Sharon’s voice is colored with compassion. No judgment. “You can tell those things to me.”

“But I can’t.” The alcohol is loosening Tarja’s tongue, “I might hurt you.”

Silence crawls into their conversation. Tarja drinks languidly and forces the alcohol to stay in her mouth. _Burn, baby, burn._

“You know I can take it.” Sharon finally answers, somehow vulnerable, “You know I can.”

So Tarja talks. Sharon listens. The rest of the night blurs out. A joyful mist. Tarja falls asleep on the couch with Sharon on the other end of the line.

Sharon doesn’t immediately hang up. She listens to the rhythmic inhales and exhales. She wonders what it’ll be like to fall asleep with Tarja in her arms. Or if Tarja had her in her arms.

Sharon doesn’t tell Tarja that.

She doesn’t tell her many things. And it goes both ways.

***

The first kiss is organic. Chaste. Sharon initiates it. Tarja doesn’t reciprocate.

They are saying goodbye at Sharon’s front gate. It’s the first time Tarja brings her family over to have dinner with the den Adel’s. Robert, Sharon’s husband, seems eccentric and cold. Then he’s the exact opposite after a glass of wine. Sharon winks at Tarja when she finds her guests surprised.

When the kiss happens Marcelo is already starting the car. Tarja has Naomi’s hand in hers, wrapping up the chat with Robert and Sharon. Sharon comes forward for an embrace. Tarja leans in. Sharon circles an arm lose around Tarja’s shoulder. Sharon smells great. Like floral conditioner. Maybe Tarja is focusing too much on Sharon’s scent so when the brunet backs away, the kiss on Tarja’s left cheek catches her completely off guard.

“Oh silly me, I forgot I’m still wearing lipstick!”

Sharon exclaims, her eyes gleaming mischievously. Tarja wonders if Sharon just wants an excuse to touch her. When Sharon does, Tarja finds that she doesn’t hate it. Because the touch is slightly different than when Sharon wiped the peanut butter off her face; that was crude and taunting. This time, when Sharon’s finger glides over Tarja’s face, Tarja finds herself anticipating the contact.

“You’re ruining her makeup.”

The moment is broken with Robert’s drunk slur. Sharon draws her hand back. Naomi runs off to their car. Marcelo honks behind Tarja. Tarja stares at Sharon. Sharon doesn’t look away. Her lips quirk in a smug angle as she replies to her husband, “Don’t worry, she still looks pretty gorgeous.”

***

The second kiss comes when they are going over Tarja’s old stuff.

Sharon is staying over. She says Robert’s out of town. Tarja knows that’s her way of saying Rob is wasted. Marcelo...Tarja doesn’t want to talk about her husband. He’s sleeping in the guestroom again. Naomi is asleep.

It starts as a glass of wine. And another. Then a one-sided truth-or-dare takes them to Tarja’s room. The dare is to show something you’ve never shown others before. It prompts Sharon to go over Tarja’s unfinished book (without her consent, since Sharon insists upon playing the stupid game).

Sharon finds a dusty collection of pictures. They feature Tarja and her band members. So young. Sharon teases Tarja how good she looks in corsets and heels and dark makeup.

“I can’t believe… _wow_. I don’t know you sing. And write. What _can’t_ you do?”

“Managing a marriage, I think.”

Sharon’s face falls. Maybe Tarja does need to talk about her husband. Sharon puts down the pictures. She’s wearing Tarja’s nightgown, and she smells like winter Jasmin instead of expensive cream. It’s because Sharon has used Tarja’s shampoo and lotion. Sharon is sitting like a mermaid. The light from above haloed Sharon’s figure. The brunet looks like a nymph.

“At least you’re still trying. At least you’re not giving up.” Sharon says, her eyes wide and sad, “But I guess nothing beats time, huh?”

Tarja gets what she’s saying. Marcelo is the one who drags Tarja out of the mud. He has stayed since Tarja was 18.

Rob has stayed for Sharon since high school. They have their future planned. They have a company built. They have three children together.

Time changes people. Time is why they can’t leave. They have invested too much on their spouses, it’s impossible to put everything behind.

“Yeah.” Sighs Tarja.

She gathers her things back in their dusty box, then the cardboard box slides into the cobwebbed corner.

Sharon and she are past the point where they need to explain things in black and white. Because there is no black and white. There’s only _gray_. Bits and pieces of their past are traded in cups of coffee, phone calls when p.m. tic-tocks into a.m., and surprise-visits.

It has almost been half a year. Autumn is falling into winter.

Tarja no longer feels like a stranger in this community. She has Sharon to thank.

“Tari?”

“Hmmm?”

“Can I give you a hug?”

Sharon is puppy-eyed again. And Tarja can’t say no to that.

“If you must.”

She mutters half-heartedly when Sharon leans diagonally to her with glee. Tarja looks away with a small tilt of her face. That gives Sharon the perfect opportunity to peck on her cheek before she goes in the embrace. Tarja freezes. But Sharon is already hugging her. Sharon is a natural at this—firm, warm with arms looping around her frame. Tarja relaxes into the gesture. It feels good to be held.

“Sometimes I think you get a kick out of kissing me.”

“I try not to make a habit out of it.”

Sharon chuckles. Tarja grins at the remark. Sharon sways a little, and Tarja indulges her. It feels foolish but not entirely awkward.

“You’re blushing.” Sharon smirks after she lets go. Tarja blinks. “Why? Are you shy?”

“I…” Tarja stutters. The more she searches her brain the lousier her answer becomes, “I guess it’s too Dutch. You’re too Dutch.”

“Not Suomi enough to fit your standard?” Sharon laughs. Her eyes crinkle. She shakes her head and says, “I have already watered down the kisses from three times to one. So help me out here.” Tarja raises her brows, poker-faced. Sharon giggles, “God you’re funny.”

“You have no idea how painful it is, converting from handshake to air-kiss.” Tarja says, not lying, “When I was in Marcelo’s home country, they kiss everybody when they enter the room then they kiss everybody again when they leave.”

“If I can only imagine. It must be hell of a cultural shock.”

Sharon is smiling with stars in her eyes. Tarja looks away again as she gets up from the ground.

“Hey, now it’s your turn.”

“What?”

Sharon springs from the floor and does a dramatic hats-off.

“It’s her majesty’s turn to ask me to do a dare, or tell a truth! We’re still playing.”

Tarja scowls and flings onto the bed.

“Can’t we just sleep already? I’m too old for this.”

“Good gracious!” Feigning disbelief, Sharon jumps next to her in bed with of feline grace, “What does that say about me? I’m _three years older_ than you.”

She stares down at Tarja. Her hair cascades and frames her face. Tarja thinks if she doesn’t comply, Sharon is going to crawl on top of her. She needs to prevent that.

“Three things you like about me. Then three things you hate about me. Go.”

“Ooph!” Sharon furrows her brows. She lies down and rolls to Tarja’s direction, “It’s a toughie.”

Tarja smirks. She gets up to switch the lights off. When she returns to bed, she finds Sharon on her back in deep concentration. In the dark, her eyes reflect the scarce light of the moon.

“You are trustworthy, funny…authentic.” Sharon pauses, smiling faintly, her words cautious. Tarja turns towards her side. She props herself up with her elbow to look at the brunet. Sharon continues more seriously, “And also: honest, kind, super-sexy.”

Tarja smirks at the “sexy” part.

“What about the three things you hate about me?”

“I said them already.”

It’s Tarja’s turn to frown.

“You mean the honest part?” Asks Tarja.

Sharon’s silence answers for herself; she dodges Tarja’s gaze. Tarja can see better in the dark now. She sees a melancholic, almost rueful look on Sharon’s face.

Tarja realizes something. It strikes her senses numb and spikes flutters in her stomach.

Tarja lies back and tugs herself in mechanically, leaving a distance between Sharon and her. But she also doesn’t tell Sharon to leave.

For minutes they lie awake, then Tarja breaks the silence.

“Sharon?”

“Yes?”

“Why are you still attracted to me romantically?”

Tarja forces that out in one breath. Sharon doesn’t answer immediately. Tarja starts to ask herself _why have I permitted this to go on for such a long time?_

“Because I can’t.”

Sharon says feebly. Tarja sets her jaw. It’s an easy excuse. _You always want something more if you can't have it._

It’ll be easier if their relationship is an affair. But Tarja knows it’s more complicated than that. She needs Sharon like fish to water, and Sharon needs her like flowers to sunshine.

The water dries up to form the clouds, and the clouds will block the sun. It will rain. It’s bound to. It’s the law of the universe.

“When can’t you just…say it, Sharon?” She rasps and collapses her eyelids, “I know you, even if you told me so little about yourself. And it hurts, every time you lie to me.”

Sharon gulps audibly. She shifts.

“I know.” Sharon reaches out and touches her hair. Tarja stays still. She doesn’t open her eyes. She’s afraid after she sees Sharon’s face, she’ll go soft again. Sharon carries on woefully, “I guess this is just who I am. I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.” The hand stiffens, then the touch is gone. Tarja feels moisture on the corner of her own eyes, “You say it because it makes you feel better. You think if you said you’re sorry, you have the right stay.”

Tears roll down Tarja’s cheeks. She wipes them away herself. She doesn’t want Sharon to touch her.

“Don’t you want me to?” Sharon asks, “Don’t you want me to stay?”

“Yes of course I do.” Tarja snaps open her eyes, angry and frustrated as she glares at Sharon, “But you’re making it very difficult. I know, I have my faults too. I’m too _trustworthy_.”

Sharon winces as Tarja quotes her. No mockery, just brutality.

Tarja feels no better. She feels like pulling a pin from a butterfly she’s killed. _It’s too late._ Tarja’s vision blurs as she continues, vehement, “I let you in, and I don’t know if one day you get bored, you’ll stab me on the back and just fucking leave. I can’t let that happen. I can’t love you when I have a family to take care of.”

It slips out too quickly for Tarja to realize what she’s just said. Sharon only stares at her, dumbfounded. Now she’s not the only one who hates Tarja’s honesty.

“You…you love me?”

Sharon asks, her bottom lip trembling. Tarja gets up from her bed. She turns her back on Sharon. Tarja rubs her face. Then she buries her face in her palms. Sharon rises behind her. Slowly.

Now it all makes sense. Tarja doesn’t ask about Floor because she cares too much.

Sharon needs the shadows to feel safe. So Tarja doesn’t ask too many questions. Sharon needs to feel loved but free. So Tarja keeps her close, but at arm’s length. Sharon needs Tarja to care for so she wouldn’t have to face herself. So Tarja opens up.

“I’m still romantically attracted to you, because you feel like home to me.” Sharon speaks, low and clear, “You are always authentic and considerate. I feel like you’re the only one I can trust. When I’m with you, I don’t feel judged. But then I hate you for that.” Sharon’s voice turns uneven. Tarja’s shoulders stay rigid. Sharon shifts until she can sit by Tarja, “I hate you for being so kind to me because I don’t deserve it. I hate you for being honest because I can’t reciprocate. I can’t show myself to you. Maybe I’m too scared. I just can’t…I’m scared that, after I show you how _shallow_ I am, you would leave.”

Tarja’s shoulders slump. She drops her hands onto her lap. Sharon watches timidly.

“Is that it?”

Tarja questions, her voice far away but steady.

“I swear I am telling the truth.” Sharon nibbles her bottom lip, “Please, Tarja. Can you please give me another chance?”

“There’s something you forgot.” Tarja seems tired but relieved. She angles her head towards Sharon. Sharon looks so innocent and beautiful. Tarja almost can’t carry out the things she is going to say, “How about the part that I am super-sexy?”

Sharon blinks.

She scrutinizes Tarja’s face. When she finds the warmth and forgiveness in the soft lines around Tarja’s mouth and eyes, Sharon cackles.

“Go on,” Tarja grins, “why do you hate that I am sexy?”

“Because…c’mon. You know why.” Sharon bumps Tarja’s shoulder, looking away. Her cheeks are darkened with a rare blush. “I’ve been resisting so hard. I tell myself I can’t want you like _that_ , but my body is honest.”

“Really?” Tarja is surprised, “So you actually want to shag me in the beginning. That’s why you did the peanut-butter-trick.”

“Or why do you think I did that?”

“I thought it’s a…a test, or a move you do with everyone you meet! You did say things like, _now I know not everyone I meet wants to fuck me_ , or something like _I_ _could smell out my own kind_.”

“Tarja.” Sharon sighs, solemn, “I don’t seduce every single person I meet. I only seduce those I _really_ like. And I happen to like you a lot.”

“Well, I’m flattered.”

That’s all Tarja can manage. Now she’s flushing hard herself.

They go back to bed. Wordless. Peaceful. The confessions have worn them out. Tarja tugs her head under Sharon’s chin. Sharon has her arm draping across Tarja’s waist. Her other hand is intertwined with Tarja’s. She can feel Tarja’s warm breath on her collarbone. She falls asleep with Tarja in her arms.

Sharon hasn’t told Tarja many things. But she will try from now on.

And it goes both ways.


	3. Encores

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I…I still don’t know what came over me. I mean, I didn’t plan to kiss you. That’d be ridiculous.”  
> Sharon feels giddy. She giggles.  
> “The body is always honest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This time Tarja kisses back, and y'all know what that means.

Their first real kiss is irrefutable. Tarja cups Sharon’s face in her hands. Sharon’s knees turn to jelly. She stumbles to lean on her desk. Tarja doesn’t relent. She drinks Sharon’s lips in gulps. Oxygen be damned. Sharon has her hands supporting herself, grasping the edge of her office table. She can’t compute this. She’s supposed to host a meeting now. But Tarja calls and says she needs to see her. Tarja sounds strange over the phone. Sharon has to buzz her into her office.

Tarja looks pale. Her face is set in stoic lines. Her eyes hollow all except the green fires that put Sharon under a spell. She only remembers Tarja taking quick, angry strides towards her desk. She doesn’t remember standing up. When Sharon comes around, Tarja has her by the collar and their teeth knock. Messy. Lip balm meets lipstick. Soft mouth seeking sharp at another, until consciousness fades with conscience.

The air runs out for Tarja to continue the kiss. She breaks from the taller woman and pants, eyes in a wild glaze. Her hands are shaking. Sharon steadies them. Tarja jumps at the contact. She takes a step back but Sharon doesn’t let go. Sharon has her mind wrapped around the situation now. Tarja hasn’t. She is unstable. Her resolution has run out with the kiss.

“I…I’m sorry. This, I just, I didn’t mean to—”

“Tarja, you don’t have to explain it to me now.” Sharon’s voice comes out in jagged breaths, “It’s ok. You’re with me. It’s ok.”

“No, it’s not. I’m sorry.” Tarja frees herself from Sharon’s grasp. Her face is flushed with panic, her lips kissed-swollen, “Fuck, I shouldn’t have come here.”

 _What have I done_ is written all over Tarja’s face. Sharon wants to ask what’s wrong, and maybe also say she doesn’t mind at all. But she can’t risk anything that might aggravate Tarja. She stays silent and watches Tarja carefully. What can possibly give Tarja a meltdown in the middle of the day?

The phone on Sharon’s desk rings. Tarja’s head jerks to the sound. Sharon remembers her meeting with the clients.

Tarja flees. Sharon sighs. She dials to the conference room, then speaks to the comm that she’ll be in there.

She knows Tarja. Tarja needs space. Right now, all Sharon could do, is to convince her clients that she’s capable of things other than being late.

***

The mystery is solved when Tarja calls her the day after. A Friday night. Sharon has never picked up her phone so fast. Tarja elaborates on a fight with Marcelo.

“He told me he was concerned about you and me. I asked him why and he said Anett—” Sharon grumps at the nosy woman’s name, “—confides to him about her wife’s recent affair. When Ann talks about Floor, you know she can’t leave you out of the conversation.”

“So Marcelo gets Anett’s implication, that he should also secure his wife from me.”

“Yes. Even if Anett’s topic is about her wife fucking around with the nanny, she somehow drags you into the mess.”

Sharon’s heart warms at Tarja’s protective tone.

“So I said that to Marcelo and he got pissed off. He thinks people can’t change. A slut’s a slut. People who cheat on others will always relapse. And how can I not flip out when he mentions that again?”

“Ah, you mean the fling you had with your bandmate. The Tuomas guy?”

“Uh-huh! I was 19 for fuck’s sake, and Marcelo just can’t let that go. You know what we always fight about. You have heard it too many times for your own good.”

Sharon grins. She can hear Tarja’s signature dry humor, and it means that Tarja is feeling better.

“Should I warn you about reaching your swear-quota?”

“Fuck no.” Tarja curses loudly. Sharon laughs. Tarja continues, “What caused me to lose it was because Marcelo picked the absolute worst timing to fight. It was during breakfast. It was the first time we fought in front of our daughter.”

“Oh _no_.”

“Yeah, that’s my initial reaction as well. But then I got hot-headed and sort of told him things like, you want me to have an affair, sure, I’ll give you one. I wasn’t really thinking. The only thing clear on my mind was that…I need to see you and do something.”

“And that’s why you rushed into my office and kissed me.”

A pause. Then Tarja speaks in a smaller voice.

“Well, like I said, I wasn’t really thinking.” Tarja gulps, “I…I still don’t know what came over me. I mean, I didn’t _plan_ to kiss you. That’d be ridiculous.”

Sharon feels giddy. She giggles.

“The body is always honest.”

“Sharon!”

Tarja protests. She sounds abhorred by the idea. But not grossed-out.

“Fine, fine. We’ll have that discussion some other day. So what happens after that?”

“Marcelo apologized today. He begged me to stop being mad at him. He said he just thought that I becoming cheerier, and also closer to you, is no coincidence.”

“Hmmm. Basically, what he meant was, he got upset ‘cause you seem happier?”

“You think so too, don’t you!” Tarja shouts, “It’s crazy! He wants me to forgive him, but he wouldn’t trust me first. How can I hold out the olive branch this time?”

“But it sounds like Marcelo really wants you to make peace with him. You said he begged.”

“Yeah, because his ego can’t take it. He acted oh-so selfless and said things like _I just want you to be happy_. Do you know what he meant by that? It means that he’s giving me _permission_ to have an affair, as long as I’m willing to admit I’m wrong and he’s right!” Tarja is livid, “I am done talking to him. I swear. I am done!”

“But how about Naomi? Is she ok?”

“I think—I _hope_ so. I just tugged her in. She said she heard us fight from time to time, and she just wants mommy and daddy to be happy.”

“Oh god. That must have hit you hard.”

“Yeah, it did. I can’t talk about it without tearing up.”

The tremors are evident in Tarja’s voice. Sharon feels for the younger woman.

“And how about you? I haven’t called because, um, I think you’d need some peace and quiet after, um, you know.”

“I am...I…no. First, thank you.” Tarja says gently, “For being there for me.”

“Of course! You’d do the same.”

“And I have to apologize. What I did was irresponsible. Disrespectful. It must have thrown you off your track that day. I don’t have the right to do that.”

“It’s ok.” Sharon says, firmer than she intends to. She clears her throat, “I’d rather let you kiss me like that, than to entertain a room of sharks that attack on the smell of money.”

“That’s excellent news.” Tarja drawls, “I thought you’d be traumatized.”

“I’ve got nothing to complain about. You’re a great kisser.”

Tarja snickers. Sharon laughs but feels a bit lost somehow. Disappointed. But she’ll deal with her feelings later.

“So, how are you feeling now?”

“I feel weird.” Tarja says curtly, then sighs, “Like I am being set free from something, and also losing my direction. I have always done my best at contributing to my family, and I am waiting…waiting for myself to take in the fact, that maybe Marcelo would never trust me fully. Maybe he would never accept me as who I am. Maybe he never has.”

A heavy pause ensues. Before Sharon can tell Tarja that she has similar experiences, Tarja asks curiously, “And have I really become, I don’t know, _sunnier_ like Marcelo said? He said Anett thought so too.”

“ _Sunnier_? What kind of adjective was that?”

“Beats me.”

Tarja guffaws. Sharon bites her tongue at Tarja’s bursts of laughter. Maybe Marcelo does have a point.

“So what’s the status quo between you two? Is he sleeping in the guest room again?”

“Yeah. Don’t think he’s moving back. Even if he wants to, he better has something good to convince me to unlock that door.”

“Well, that’s that. You’ve tried. The best you can do is wait for him to come around. Or you can start fooling around. He did give you permission.”

“Ugh. I’d rather not. I’ve got better things to do.”

Tarja grumbles. She has recovered now. Sharon hears it in her voice. She feels proud of Tarja.

“He knows you’ve smooched me?”

“Uh-huh. I yelled that into his face.”

Tarja sounds satisfied. Sharon gives a low whistle.

“What did he say?”

“More convinced about his theory, that we’ve been sleeping together at the beginning.”

“Ah, fuck.”

***

The clouds loom low. Tarja has dropped Naomi off in Sharon’s house. Her daughter has been looking forward to this: a sleepover at the den Adel’s mansion. Sharon’s kids have come home for the winter break. They’ve spent times together—playdates, mostly—and the children blend together well. Sharon’s kids are all older than Naomi. Very well-mannered and intelligent, not posh nor spoiled.

Rob is playing board games with them. Tarja is surprised by how different he is with children. _Loving_. A bad husband doesn’t always equal a bad father. Tarja becomes less worried.

Sharon sees her out to her car. There are several yards between their door, the gate and Tarja’s Mercedes SUV.

They both know about Tarja’s plan for tonight. Tarja is going to see a movie with her husband. Downtown, rubbing shoulders with strangers, catching the neon glow of city lights.

“So, this romantic evening out with Marcelo…”

Sharon says, voice tight and abrupt. She realizes she feels upset.

But anyone would, if they see their best friend all dressed up, going someplace with someone else, right?

Tarja looks gorgeous. Her makeup is light, with soft traces of mascara and eyeliner making her eyes pop. The color of her lipstick is maroon, darker than scarlet, and it brings out the lime-green in her eyes. Tarja’s hair is down. Sharon has to tell herself to stop gaping at Tarja’s figure; instead of plain wool cardigan, t-shirt and sweatpants, today Tarja is in a black trench coat. Leather. Mysterious and empowering. Beneath that, she is in something filmy but not revealing. A creamy blouse in silk, tugged into a pair of black wide-leg pants that drape around Tarja’s ankles, just before they can cover up her heels. Yes, Sharon’s eyes have struck gold there—Tarja is wearing _heels_. A pair of Louboutins, black, thin low heel, subtle and timeless. Besides Tarja’s outfit Sharon also picks up a new scent. Sandalwood or something that’s earth-toned, mellow, rich and surprising, matching the personality of the wearer.

Tarja is indeed, in Sharon’s mind, a profound person who’s as caring and witty as she could be.

Tarja says something that goes lost to Sharon.

“What? Sorry, I was um, a little distracted because you look really nice today.”

She answers truthfully. She peeks at Tarja. Tarja’s face is gloomy, and it’s not because of the darkening sky. Sharon can already taste the rain in the air.

“Never mind. It’s nothing.”

Tarja doesn’t seem irritated, she just suddenly looks ten years older. Sharon frowns. Tarja looks upset, too, instead of buzzing with excitement ten minutes ago.

Sharon knows Tarja has planned this evening out with Marcelo. The couple is going to watch _Tenet,_ some Hollywood movie with special effects, big director and even more famous actors _._ Then they’ll have a late dinner at some fancy restaurant, or maybe Chinese takeout if they decided to go home. But there’ll definitely be red wine, Spanish. Then they’ll both be tipsy enough to get a little hot and heavy. Maybe they’ll have sex tonight.

Sharon realizes they have reached Tarja’s vehicle. She has lost herself in her thoughts.

Tarja is gazing at her with an unreadable look.

“Can I tell you something? In the car?”

It’s like Tarja is expecting Sharon to say that. Tarja only looks alert. They get into the car methodically, Sharon shotgun and Tarja the driver’s seat.

The sky rumbles.

Sharon sits helplessly. Tarja toys with her wedding band, and then she props her left elbow on the door’s armrest. Her head leans to her left hand, then her face is covered from Sharon’s inspection. Sharon takes a sharp breath at the shadow darkening Tarja’s face. In the car, Tarja smells headier like amber and vanilla; it makes Sharon dizzy. Euphoric. Reckless.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this now, but I’ve always been wanting to tell you this…I’ve never slept with anyone else besides Robert.”

Tarja turns her head towards Sharon. Tarja’s face is a neutral mask, but her eyes betray her. They are whirling in confusion. Sharon quickly looks away. She fidgets.

“What do you mean? But you never denied those rumors—”

“I flirt, yeah. With a lot of people. I am guilty of that. I admit that I am unfaithful, because I have more than one _emotional_ affairs. And I’m not clarifying this to save my image. I don’t give a fuck about how others think of me.”

Sharon looks back to Tarja. Tarja is listening carefully. Her eyes are slightly narrowed. Lines of concentration make her face empathetic. Sharon shifts in her seat. Her hands cinch into fists as she continues, “You…you are not the others. You’re my best friend. I need to tell you this because I know you’ve been waiting for me. You are so very patient, Tarja. And I feel like I should come clean—I didn’t deny those rumors because I want them to happen. Back then, I just wanted Robert to _care_. But even after the town is flying with those nasty things, Rob did nothing. He didn’t even ask. He pretends everything is fine. So I gave up.”

Sharon pauses to catch her breath. Tarja’s eyes are gleaming in the dark. It starts to rain. Raindrops splatter onto their temporary haven. From gentle pitter-patters, to a nearly thunderous effect.

“I gave up on my marriage. I have no intention to save it. And it’s a lifestyle I choose. I’m not exactly proud, but I’ve made peace with it to some extent. Seeing you with Marcelo…” Tarja purses her lips. Sharon wets her own, “It breaks my heart to see you miserable. I adore your tenacity so much, but sometimes you become so hurt that I almost want to convince you to…to let go a little. But I am only an outsider looking in. I don’t have the right to say anything about your marriage.”

“Yes, that you don’t.” Tarja mutters. She closes her eyes. Tarja has never looked like this. Faithless and apathetic. Lost in her inner turmoil. Then she opens her eyes and stares straight ahead, “I have an umbrella in the back if you want.”

Sharon’s heart sinks. She’s expecting anything but an anticlimactic suggestion, that she should leave.

“That’s ok. I’ll just…it’s not far.” Sharon stutters, “See you later. And um, have a good night.”

Tarja only exhales, her nostrils flaring a little with the movement. Sharon gets the subtext—she has overstayed her welcome.

As Sharon sprints towards her house, she can hear the ignition of the engine behind. Tarja drives away immediately. Sharon hates her a little for that. But she has only herself to blame.

***

Tarja takes her makeup off, machine-like. Mascara and eyeliner come off in dirty smudges. Foundation, contour and blush in clouds of pink-yellow foams. Her senses are numb. She is still replaying her conversation with Marcelo.

(Let’s take a break, if that’s what you want.

I didn’t _want_ this. I just want the best for all of us.

Well, Naomi certainly benefits from this. She’s having the greatest time at your friend’s house. Or should I say, your _lover’s_ house?)

Tarja looks at her own hands and finds them shaking. She feels remote at that, like seeing her phone running out of battery. She places her hands on the bathroom sink, and grips its edge. It’s cold and hard, smooth but a little grainy. Tarja stares at the surface of the basin. Maybe she should get some detergent and scrubs.

And that’s what she does: cleaning the bathroom after talking with her husband. The sharp chemical smell clears her mind. Her hands have stopped shaking. She even remembers to change into something comfortable.

They didn’t make it to the movie theater. They started to argue in the car. Marcelo made a U-turn when the rush-hour traffic got too thick _._ They finished the ride, ordered takeout, ate in silence and fought.

(Every day I come home and see you with Naomi, the look on your face…I am tired. I just don’t know how to satisfy you anymore.

I was happy! I am content and grateful for everything! You are paranoid!

But _she_ makes you happy. I don’t get it. I have never seen you like this since forever.

Does it ever occur to you that it’s your _guilt_ doing all the tricks? You feel you have forced me to come here, but you don’t know how to make it up to me. You don’t have to! It’s not your obligation to stoop so low!

Why can’t you just tell me what to do? Tell me what Sharon possibly can offer, and I’ll try—

Leave her out of this! You have no fucking right to assume such things!

Let’s take a break, if that’s what you want…)

Tarja takes off her rubber gloves. The sink is squeaky-clean. Her neck is stiff and starting to get sore. Her hands are clammy. Her nose is tired of the smell of chlorine bleach.

She takes a bath next. She falls asleep in the tub and wakes up cold and frigid. As she blow-dries her hair, she checks her phone. It’s almost ten o’clock.

Sharon had called. Twice. There’s a voicemail. No texts. So there’s nothing urgent.

Tarja listens to the voicemail as she puts on her hair serum and body lotion. Then she walks herself to the mirror. Pride wins over vanity. She’s going barefaced to the den Adel’s.

***

The voicemail Sharon left is short. It says that she had overstepped her bounds and would never do it again.

Tarja thought she has used up her anger today. Apparently, she hasn’t. She phones Sharon in the car.

“Hello?”

“I need to see you.”

“Tarja? What’s wrong? Are you ok? You—”

“I’m driving over. I can’t talk now. Not this way.”

She hangs up on Sharon. She put _Disturbed_ on, then turns the volume way up.

***

Sharon is restless all night. She tries to finish up the evaluation report of her department’s sales of the last season. She gives up after the fourth graph. She tries to send some emails and make calls, instead, she only makes two failed-calls and one not-so-successful voicemail. She tries to join her family downstairs, but her feet refuse to budge as she reaches downstairs—the silhouettes of Robert, her kids and Naomi all huddled together on the couch, watching Star Wars on TV. Sharon can’t ruin that perfect image. She feels an ill sense of lassitude, like she doesn’t belong here.

Later she digs a pack of Camels from under her mattress, then a box of matches. There are still seven cigs in the packet.

Sharon sneaks to the backyard. She isn’t a smoker. She only enjoys the sounds when she shakes the pack, tapping until a fresh cigarette pops itself up. She loves how thin and fragile the cigarette feels, holding the soft tobacco in between her digits. She is thrilled when striking the match, watching the tip of its flames, how the tip of the cig catches the golden fire from the match.

When Tarja calls, Sharon puts out the smoke swiftly. Ashamed. Tarja sounds mad and subdued.

Sharon knows exactly why Tarja is angry.

***

Waiting for Tarja to trek from the gate towards the house is excruciating. Tarja’s form looks frail in the dark. Her walk is stern and twitchy. She is not wearing a coat. Black oversized jumper, faded jeans, not even a scarf. It’s dropping below 60 degrees tonight. Tarja must be freezing. The sight of her gives Sharon a fuzzy feeling, like an odd rush that makes her hot. Flustered.

Sharon crosses her hands in front of her chest.

Tarja carries herself in front of Sharon. The motion sensor light flickers on. Standing on the front porch, the light cast Sharon wan and ghostly. Her shadow spills onto the floor. For a second Tarja is ecstatic to see that—it means that Sharon is not the devil. _Devils don’t have shadows, right?_

Tarja is about to say something when Sharon catches both of her hands. Tarja’s breath hitches. The unexpected contact feels smooth and warm. Too warm for comfort.

Sharon is draped in a cashmere coat, still in her business attire—a red jumpsuit—but shoeless. Tarja glares at Sharon. That’s when Sharon starts to rub their hands together. Thus heat comes from friction.

“You smell like cigarette.” Tarja says instead, throatier than she intended, “Have you been smoking?”

“No I wasn’t. I just…lit one up.”

“So you just light up a cigarette to not smoke?” Tarja demands, her hands still in Sharon’s, “That’s just dumb.”

Sharon starts to lightly trace Tarja’s knuckles with her thumb. Tarja is painfully aware of that. Sharon likes the high blush climbing onto Tarja’s cheeks; paired with the defiance, she finds the shorter woman adorable. Desirable.

“You don’t believe me?”

“Why should I?” Tarja questions.

A dangerous gleam mist over Sharon’s eyes. Her lips are slightly parted. Dewy lips. Maybe she’s wearing lip gloss. Tarja flashes her attention back to Sharon’s eyes, but Sharon already catches her staring at her mouth. Tarja swallows, not sure if she wanted to rip herself away or get closer. Her resolve is gone.

Sharon chooses for them. She leans closer. Tarja looks away with her bottom lip between her teeth. Sharon gets her index finger under Tarja’s chin. She gently guides Tarja to face her. Their gazes connect like lightning strikes earth.

“Would you let me prove it?”

Tarja feels Sharon’s breath on her lips. Heat is thrumming off her taller body.

Sharon’s eyes turn pitch-black when the sensor light switches off in an audible “ _click_ ”.

Their hearts drum the air thin. They stare at each other in the dark, blind at their surroundings. To pitch forward is gravity and warmth. To back away is falling down cold. Sharon doesn’t want to resist anymore. Tarja doesn’t want to repress anymore.

It’s a simultaneous decision when they surge for each other’s mouth. Hungry and mad. They don’t bump their noses probably because they’ve done this before.

It still feels like the very first time. Sharon’s hand in Tarja’s hair. Tarja’s palms cupping Sharon’s face. Tarja’s legs give this time; she backs and Sharon presses her onto the wooden post, only to kiss her deeper. Tarja gives a muffled cry when her back hits the pillar. Then she ravishes Sharon’s mouth like she wants to morph into her. Sharon does the same.

Sparks are going off from their tongues and mouths, a pirouette that consumes all the senses and fears. They are not afraid. Passion and need are all they care about.

They take desperate breaths as they severed. Their violent motions cause the sensor light to go on again, shining on the mists of vapor bursting from their heated mouths. The night is getting colder. Not for Tarja and Sharon.

“You tasted anything like tobacco?” Asks Sharon. Her eyes are unfocused and wide. Tarja laughs wryly, and the sounds come out weak because she is still panting. She shakes her head.

“Let’s get inside. It’s freezing.”


	4. Finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tarja’s stomach churns with residual passion. She finds herself too needy to say, that shower-sex is really not the best idea for people their age.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically they finally have sex after more than 10000+ words of buildup.

Discreetly, they walk behind the couch, where the movie-watching crowd is seated. Tarja hesitates mid-path. Sharon has reached the first step of the stairway. She stops to throw an inquisitive look at the woman falling behind.

Tarja seems torn. She is on the crossroads of choices: one is to walk over, greets the kids and Robert, then lies about what she’s doing here. The other is to follow Sharon, the nature of their following interactions unknown, then confront whatever _has_ been happening.

However, life has its own way of making decisions for you. Rob, for some miraculous reason, feels Tarja’s stare. He glances back. Slow and cautious.

In a distance, his face is handsome and hostile. But then his eyes find his wife’s. Tarja can see something is being exchanged there. Something that only happens to people who’ve known one another since forever.

When Robert looks back at Tarja his expression is different. Tarja can’t describe her relief when Rob gives her a tiny nod. Tarja purses her lips and smiles. Robert turns away.

***

Sharon’s room is huge. Tarja has only taken one brief look when she was here with her family, the time Sharon gave them a house-tour.

Now that Tarja is entering the bedroom, she feels like floating into another universe. It’s unrulier compared to her first impression of the room. The messiness makes Tarja more at ease.

The deco is in colors of beige, burgundy red and sky blue. The floor is carpeted, but Sharon doesn’t seem to mind when Tarja wears her shoes inside. The bed is king-sized, unmade and rumpled. Hazy lights spray from above, creating a private, stable ambiance of solitude. Feminine touches are all over the place: the scented candle, the half-drawn flowy curtain, the walk-in closet, a pair of heels discarded about, the gigantic dressing table with makeup kits scattered on its surface. The air smells like floral perfume and faint laundromat.

Tarja becomes self-aware after she’s in the room. It’s not like she’s underdressed to be here. It’s just not her style.

Sharon seems to know what’s on her mind. She hurls her coat at the settee in her closet, and grins at Tarja.

“Would you like a drink?”

“What are you having?”

“You name it, I have it.”

Sharon paces herself next to her bed. She kneels before her mahogany bookshelf, and opens a cabinet. Tarja walks closer.

“Well this is awfully convenient.” Tarja drawls, mildly impressed at the hidden liquor collection, “And what a way to stock alcohol.”

Sharon raises her brow at Tarja, and hauls up a bottle of Merlot.

“The classics never fail.”

Tarja shrugs as an agreement. Sharon produces two glasses from the other cabinet. The wine sloshes into the glasses. They sit on the bed. They nurse their drinks. Neither wants to ruin the ceasefire. If they focus, they can hear the end credits’ music on TV. Sharon gets up. She opens the window, circulating the stale air with the fresh. It’s significantly cooler.

Tarja takes her shoes off and crosses her legs. She watches. Sharon is deep in her thoughts, but words are ready on the tip of her tongue. Tarja can see it. It’s concealed in the slightly erratic movements.

Sharon operates in grace and poise; now, there’s strain in her moves.

“Before you say anything.” Tarja speaks, surprising herself as well, “I just want you to know this time, I just want the truth. No more apologies.”

“I know.” Answers Sharon quickly.

She finishes her wine in one go. Just looking at Sharon does that makes Tarja drunk.

“I lied.” The brunet says, her expression speaks of guilt and defeat, “First to myself, then to you.”

Tarja feels as if they are back to the start. The sight of Sharon makes Tarja afraid. She has changed into someone she doesn’t know. Sharon is the reason. Now Tarja wonders if all she has done is in vain. Foolish. Destructive.

Sharon puts her glass on the side table. She sits on the floor, half-hugging her knees. She gazes back at Tarja, face tilting up as she does that.

From the bed, high and perched up, Tarja doesn’t feel like she has more power. But she also doesn’t think she has been played.

The kisses are real. No matter what they are, they mean something.

“It’s not ok when you came into my office and kiss me. I told you about my affairs not because you’re my best friend. I don’t…I don’t want you to have a good night.” Sharon admits. She looks down at her lap, crestfallen, “All that I’ve done, what I have said, is based on…on my cowardice. I want you all to myself, and it…I…”

It’s so hard to say it. Tarja’s gaze hardens. But Sharon doesn’t want to let her down again.

“I know you love me. I know I’m also in love with you. But I avoid the responsibility that comes with it. I want you to always be there for me, but I don’t know if I can do the same.”

The muscles of Tarja’s jaw twitches. She is silent. Sharon feels hot, like all of her blood has started to boil.

“The voicemail I left is not what I meant. I panicked. I thought if things worked out between you and Marcelo, then the voicemail would be…some kind of saving grace. For me. So I may have a shot at sticking around.”

“It didn’t work out.”

Sharon blinks in confusion. Tarja speaks no more. Her eyes say enough. Sharon can see how much pain Tarja is in. Tarja has freed herself from the shackles. She is freefalling from the cliff, not knowing if Sharon would be there to catch her.

Sharon forces back an _I’m sorry_. It’s not what Tarja needs. Tarja needs a promise that could be cashed in, not sweeting-nothings Sharon has been good at giving.

“What are you trying to say when you called me in the car?”

Sharon asks instead.

Tarja takes a sip of her wine, then changes her sitting posture. She is so beautiful that Sharon can’t breathe. Maybe it’s how petite Tarja looks in her sweater, the fabric loose around her shoulder and waist, creating a harmless, innocent look. Tarja’s jet-black hair is in a healthy shimmer, soft and sleek. It brings out the exquisiteness of her features: pale skin, high cheeks, thin nose in the perfect proportion of her face, ruby lips that have just pressed upon the lucky wine glass.

“You’re not shallow, Sharon.” Tarja speaks out of the blue, thoughtful, “That’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it? You said so yourself.”

“Yes…I guess.”

Sharon remembers. It’s the first crisis-mode-talk they ever had.

“You’re not shallow. I don’t befriend people who are shallow.” Tarja repeats with affirmation, “Normally, I sure as hell wouldn’t tolerate people if they lie to me again and again.”

Sharon’s cheeks flame up. Tarja is talking about her.

“But you are a different circumstance. I stay and I let you stay, because I think you have the ability to love and be loved.”

“Even if I’ve failed you so many times?”

Sharon blurts out. Tarja’s face softens. She smiles, blurry and good-natured.

“You don’t believe me? After I practically fought with my husband about you, came to your place, and kissed you?”

“No! No I just meant…”

The glint in Tarja’s green eyes is half-teasing. Sharon realizes how much she _misses_ Tarja. She misses this, their casual, down-to-earth interactions, their sharp confrontations, their shifting dynamics. Sharon gets up and sits beside Tarja. The bed accommodates her weight dutifully. She looks at Tarja beneath her lashes, and asks, “Is this why you are so devoted to everything? To me? Just because you _believe_?”

Tarja shakes her head delicately.

“I _trust_.”

Sharon tears up for that. She doesn’t know what kind of magic is laced in Tarja’s words, but hearing them is like validation, that Sharon is safe. Sharon is forgiven. Sharon is worthy.

“But you are still making it hard.”

Tarja snarls. Her actions speak differently. She lays her hand on Sharon’s back. The palm of her hand is soothing.

Sharon sniffles. Tarja starts to rub her back, speaking in a hushed, unhurried tone, “I am only human. You can’t expect me to always take action at everything. Seducing me doesn’t count as taking action. Saying it’s ok that I kissed you, doesn’t. Telling me about your affairs, doesn’t. Claiming that you are just crossing the line, doesn’t. I know your game.” Tarja raises her voice, “And this is not a game.”

“I know. I know that now.”

Sharon leans to Tarja’s side. And Tarja lets her stay there. For a while, they can only hear their breathings. One set rhythmic, another with occasional sniffs and sharp inhalations.

But then it’s quiet. The TV has been off. Soft breezes carry the smell of clean rain, and the nightingale’s far-off singing into the room.

Tarja relaxes. She smiles when Sharon’s pinky finds her hand on the lap. They do a childish cross with their fingers, like a pinkie-swear. Like Sharon is granting her a promise she can trust.

“I love you, Tarja.”

Sharon rasps, adjusting herself so she can tuck Tarja’s hair behind her ear. Tarja’s profile is basking in shy pink. She looks so velvety and warm that Sharon wants to take a bite. Sharon brushes the back of her hand over Tarja’s smooth skin. Her gaze drops. Now that there’s no hair in her way, she sees the pulse in Tarja’s neck, jumping like it’s afraid Sharon doesn’t know how fast Tarja’s heart is beating. Sharon holds her breath before she leans in, pressing her lips upon the tender, trembling neck. Tarja breathes out a sigh, eyes closed. She tilts her head as an invitation. Sharon smiles against the skin. She leaves a trail of kisses; neck, jawline, cheek, eyebrow, eyelash, the corner of Tarja’s lips. Tarja grins lazily. Her heart starts to hammer.

“Are you seducing me?”

Tarja murmurs. Sharon’s mouth moves towards Tarja’s ear.

“You bet.”

She whispers next to Tarja's ear. Tarja shudders. Sharon feels the muscles of Tarja’s thigh tense. She is pressing her laps together.

Sharon wraps her lips around Tarja’s earlobe, and adds pressure.

“Oh…”

Tarja gasps when Sharon nips her ear. Her hand squeezes the empty glass she’s still holding, fighting back the sounds she might make. _It has been too long._

Sharon brushes her hair to the other side of her shoulder, exposing her nape and the side of her neck. Tarja doesn’t shiver when the mass amount of her skin is bare, but when Sharon’s mouth follows, she does.

Sharon’s hand is placed on Tarja’s chest. She feels the warmth radiating beneath the textile. Her hand slides down at the side of Tarja’s body, like she’s memorizing the curves of it. But Sharon wants more of what lies beneath. She puts some distance between them, and checks on the raven-haired beauty.

“Tarja, I want you.”

Sharon’s voice is raw and primal. Vulnerable. Tarja gulps, finding the dilated pupils in Sharon’s cocoa-browns. Her desire is so naked that her mouth is warped slightly downwards. Determination makes her eyes sparkly and droopy. Her face is flushed. Her lips are now void of gloss or any colored substance, and Tarja remembers it is because of their kiss earlier.

Something animalistic and irrational surges from the pit of Tarja’s stomach. Tarja grabs Sharon’s face and connects their lips. Fire meets fire. Sharon cups Tarja’s cheeks, her body eager to close up their proximity. The wine tastes better in Tarja’s mouth, with a spicy tone lurking under. Tarja’s hand explores Sharon’s clothed upper body. Sharon tingles all over at Tarja’s blatant touches. This kiss means that they are not going to hold back this time.

Sharon gawks in confusion when Tarja pushes her away.

Panting, Tarja’s eyes have fogged into a deeper green. She stands up and places her glass next to Sharon’s on the bedside table. Sharon has been too preoccupied that she forgot Tarja is holding a glass.

Tarja combs her hair out of her face after she turns to Sharon.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Tarja’s voice is guttural and hoarse. Sharon stands up and walks to her. She takes a strand of Tarja’s hair, twirls with it, and wriggles her brows.

“I’ll show you where my zipper is.”

Tarja grins at Sharon’s cheeky comment. Staring into the dark browns, Tarja sneaks a hand into Sharon’s hair, and finds the zipper just below the nape of Sharon’s neck. Sharon holds her breath when Tarja drags the zip down, slow and deliberate. The fabric comes undone, falling from Sharon’s frame.

The sight knocks the air out of Tarja’s lungs.

Sharon’s in a set of black lacy bra and underwear, the style shockingly simple. But it doesn’t matter. Everything pales in comparison with Sharon’s tanned skin. Milky. The lines of Sharon’s body are taut. Her bosoms are full, on the cusp of spilling out of their restraint. Sharon is one fine piece of art. Tarja feels like Pygmalion finding how perfect his Galatea is.

“My eyes are up here.”

Sharon walks out of her jumpsuit, and she kicks it away with her insecurities. She has been fairly confident about her body, but letting Tarja see her like this is different. Tarja is still in stunned silence. When she gazes into Sharon’s eyes, she looks like a kid caught with a hand in the cookie jar. Sharon smiles wickedly at that.

“Like what you see?”

Tarja replies with action. She takes ahold of the hem of her sweater, and pulls them free from her upper body. The clothing tangles with her black hair. Tarja drags her hands out of the sleeves. She discards them at her feet. Nonchalant. Powerful. Sharon’s jaw drops when apparently, Tarja isn’t wearing anything under that.

“Funny. I am about to ask you the same.”

Tarja cocks her head, asking innocently. Her smile tells another story. She is eager to catch up with her nakedness, Sharon realizes, as Tarja undoes the button of her jeans. Sharon swallows thickly. She can do nothing when Tarja’s alabaster skin is revealed, inch by inch, until her shapely legs are in Sharon’s view.

“Wow.”

That’s all Sharon can muster. Her eyes sweep over Tarja’s form, taken aback by how this sexy body has been hiding beneath shapeless clothes. Then she finds the tattoos—of course Tarja would have tattoos. She has those quirky, juicy dark sides that Sharon has yet to tap into.

“Are you going to ask about them next?”

Knowing what’s on Sharon’s mind, Tarja smirks. She approaches Sharon with grace. Slinky and stealth.

Sharon can’t believe it. It’s outrageous for Tarja to just _transform_ into some sex-goddess oozing with appeal.

“Later.” Growls Sharon, and she pounces on Tarja.

Tarja squeals after she is being pushed down on the bed. After a cloudburst of excitement, they maneuver themselves into a better position.

“I thought…” Tarja pants amidst of Sharon busy planting sloppy kisses down the slope of her neck, “…I was going to be the top.”

“So you’ve been fantasizing about me?”

Sharon asks, her voice muffled against Tarja’s collarbone. Tarja giggles, staring at the delicious body hovering above. Every inch of her skin is on fire. Blood roars in her veins, accumulating into a steady, powerful heartbeat between her legs.

“I thought about you having sex with all those people…”

The kisses turn to bite. Tarja cries softly when Sharon drags her nipple with teeth, adding the pressure that feels like heaven. Sharon enjoys the sound Tarja makes so much, that she thinks she is going to hell.

“In what way?”

She prompts. She palms Tarja’s breasts, fingers rubbing the erected buds before she shoves a knee between Tarja’s legs. Tarja opens up to her. Better, she responses with an enthusiastic grind. Sharon feels the moisture and heat on her thigh. God, Tarja is wet.

“For example…you in your office.”

Tarja’s face is wild and gleeful. Her cheeks are rosy, wanton making her eyes dark and wide. Her hair is splayed on the pillow, the black contrasting the white. There’s a blush on her heaving chest. Sharon drives her knee up Tarja’s center, a reward for Tarja to describe her fantasy out loud.

“What am I wearing?”

Sharon goes back to nipping Tarja’s neck again, pining Tarja’s hands as she does so. Tarja writhes, rubbing herself over Sharon’s leg. Her breaths are irregular.

“A blouse, with a few buttons loose…and a skirt. Miniskirt. Fuck-me heels.”

Sharon chuckles and that vibration seems to spring Tarja further into her fantasy.

“Am I being pushed on the desk?”

“Yes…”

Tarja groans, giving a particular hard grind on Sharon’s thigh. Sharon decides to take matters into her own hands. She lets go and climbs down until she’s at eye-level with Tarja’s sex. Her arousal is evident.

“You hike up your skirt and…and open your legs…”

“Am I eager? Like a slut who opens her legs for anyone?”

“Yes…”

Tarja gulps as Sharon presses her thumb at her clit. The effect is immediate. Tarja gyrates her hips, the pleasure sparks from her lower abdomen, so acute that she cries.

Sharon plays with the hem of her panties, and drags it down. Tarja hoists her hips up so the fabric can come off more easily. Sharon’s eyes become glued to the red, swollen pussy in her view. She tosses Tarja’s underwear away, looks back at Tarja and asks, “Am I wearing underwear?”

Then she licks Tarja from her opening to her pulsing clit. Tarja moans, her legs parting further to welcome Sharon’s tongue.

“No, you are not wearing anything. You…oh…”

Tarja’s face contorts with pain and pleasure as Sharon slips a finger into Tarja’s entrance. She is hot and slippery.

“Is my pussy already wet?” Sharon moves her finger and decides to add another one. She is amazed at Tarja’s ability to speak now. “Is it dripping?”

“Yes!”

Tarja cries when Sharon curls her finger after a firm thrust. Fingers deep in her heat, Sharon smirks at the delicious frown on Tarja’s face. Tarja has her hands gripping the sheets. Her mouth forms a silent “o” when Sharon starts a slow, sturdy rhythm of fuckery.

Sharon marvels at the tightening muscles of Tarja’s abdomen. Her body forms the most arousing arc that Sharon has ever seen. Tarja’s entrance feels snug around her digits. At each wet _squelch_ Sharon makes, Tarja whimpers a little to the pleasure.

“Feels good, honey?”

Sharon husks. Tarja’s eyes dart to Sharon’s. Her heart flutters at the concern and warmth in Sharon’s question. Although she looks so darn good down there, with her fingers working magic, Tarja misses Sharon’s warmth.

“It’s going to be better If you come up here and kiss me.”

Sharon smiles. She obliges and journeys until she can look Tarja in the eye, her limbs supporting her weight as she does so. Their bodies hum, entangled and fervent.

Tarja gets Sharon’s hair from her face. This time the kiss is unhurried. Like a flurry during a snowfall. Sharon tastes like her arousal, and her lips are just as sweet and soft as the last time. She moans in Sharon’s mouth when her tongue tickles, probing the inside of her mouth. _Such a tease._ Her nerves are all on edge, and Sharon knows that. Tarja can feel how wet she is. Her arousal is drooling down her thighs.

“Better?” Asks Sharon. Her bottom lip is tucked between her teeth shyly. Tarja grins, placing a peck on the tip of Sharon’s nose.

“Not that I want to complain, but…” A mischievous glint flash by the green eyes, “It’ll improve if you to finger me right now.”

“Yeah?”

Sharon grins, amazed by Tarja’s bravado. Tarja’s eyes sparkles. She takes Sharon’s hand, still lubricated with her juice, and guides it towards her pussy. Sharon’s expression fixes into a hungry look. She never feels more powerful except now, with Tarja’s warm, soaking womanhood in her hands. Their heartbeats connect. Flesh to flesh. Tenderness and friction in equilibrium.

When Sharon rubs—her palm on Tarja’s clit, her fingers on the outer lip of Tarja’s pussy—Tarja howls into her neck. She lurches herself into Sharon’s hands. She can already feel it, coiling deep from the edge of her spine, threatening to consume her whole body. Tarja is close.

Sharon doesn’t give a warning as she inserts two fingers in her pussy. The motion is violent. Tarja groans. Her hand flies down to secure Sharon’s at where she needs her to be. Sharon bites down at Tarja’s neck, and sucks. Hard. But not as forceful as the hand now jamming in-and-out of Tarja’s entrance.

Tarja wails. A kitten keening. Sharon curls her fingers so the keen turns to moan.

Sharon doesn’t know what has exactly sent her over. Maybe all. Tarja convulses around her digits with a scream. Her legs flailing shut. Sharon can see how Tarja tries to come with her legs spread. It’s the most erotic image Sharon has ever seen. The blue-green veins on Tarja’s neck showing itself when Tarja’s body snaps upwards. The perspiration rolling down the love bite Sharon has left. The furrow of brows, and the loosened jaw on Tarja’s face almost convince Sharon that an orgasm could be painful. Tarja’s eyes are snapped shut with agony and relief. The rest of the shudders evens out, all brought by Sharon’s capable fingers.

When Tarja settles down, Sharon gently, very gently, extracts her fingers from Tarja’s entrance. It still elicits tremors, but Tarja assures Sharon that she’s done nothing wrong by smiling at her. A smile that turns into giggles, and then laughter. Sharon rolls down and rests beside her. Tarja turns and stares at her.

“What?”

Sharon asks with a puzzled smile. She’s incredibly aroused and semi-tired. She inspects Tarja’s expression. Tarja is still flushed. There are traces of shyness and sluggishness that reminds Sharon, she just had the most amazing climax.

“That is crazy.” Still giggling, Tarja’s gaze is happy and filled with affection, “Jesus _fucking_ Crist.”

“Not to brag but, I do know a few ways around women.”

“Sure you do.” Tarja deadpans. She rolls onto her back and covers her face, “Will you wait for just a few sec? Want to reciprocate but I’m not in my thirties anymore.”

Sharon laughs heartily.

“Or…” A smile breaks from Tarja’s face. She looks at Sharon devilishly, “You can get started without me.”

Sharon raises a brow. Damn it. Tarja looks insanely beautiful after sex. There’s a glow that Sharon’s couldn’t describe. A buttery, orangey aura, maybe. Tarja looks like a god now. A naughty, greedy one.

“I am under the impression that you’ve been recommending me to use…a particular _toy_?”

The truth never dawns so mouthwateringly. Sharon gapes at Tarja’s suggestion. Tarja shrugs.

“Truth be told…” Sharon hops down the bed, more than pleased, “That time, I was masturbating to the thoughts of you.”

“Really?”

Tarja purrs. Sharon’s hands shake slightly as she opens her nightstand. Tarja stares eagerly at Sharon’s poorly-covered side.

The vibrator in her hand looks less evil than those in porn. Almost innocent. Wand-like, it has only one stimulating point. It shines in a white, plastic hew, and it shapes like the head of a microphone.

“Mr. Hitachi.” Sharon comments with seriousness and pride, “Girls’ best friend.”

Tarja rolls her eyes with a smirk.

“Were you really thinking about me when you…you know.” 

“Uh-huh.” Sharon climbs aside Tarja. She finds the unexpected blush climbing up Tarja’s cheeks, “Hey, I don’t remember you being this demure.”

It’s cute when Tarja is shy. It rouses the hunger and yearning in Sharon. And also, it brings back the steady pulse between her legs.

Not looking away, Sharon unclasps her own bra and throws them sideways. They land somewhere on the carpet. Tarja’s gaze turns heavy. She licks her lips at the sight of Sharon’s naked breasts. Sharon’s face is still visible of a smile, but it’s wearing off into a predatory look. Her brows ease with the crinkles around her brown eyes. The edges of her mouth flatten, smoothening the dimples under her prominent cheekbones.

Tarja swallows.

“Show me how it’s done.” Tarja commands, her voice low and pleading, “Show me how you pleasure yourself.”

Sharon settles herself into a comfortable position. Her body is on the most tantalizing display. There’s a heartbeat between Sharon’s sternum and her bellybutton, drumming beneath Sharon’s olive-skin.

Tarja helps Sharon take her panties off. Tarja can feel the moisture in her hand. Sharon is staring at her unapologetically, as if she is saying it’s all her fault to have made her this wet.

She turns on the vibrator. When it goes off, Tarja can practically feel the buzzing even if it’s in Sharon’s hand. Desire clouds up their minds.

Then the tool lands upon Sharon’s glistening mound. Sharon gasps an _ah_ , her face in bliss. She presses the tool harder on her clit. Seeing Sharon with her hand between her legs stirs a wave of arousal in Tarja’s stomach.

Hands wrapped around the kit, Sharon’s knuckles are white. Her face is slack—rather, on the struggle of losing herself, or concentrating _on_ the pleasure. The more Sharon stimulates herself, the worse it becomes. Tarja can see Sharon is trying not to make a sound, but she fails. A mewl escapes. Later, a cacophony of moans.

Tarja is transfixed at the juice gliding down Sharon’s inviting sex. Her pussy is pink and inviting. A wildflower waiting to be picked. Judging by the delicious noises Sharon is making, Tarja decides she is already too close to release.

She takes the toy away from Sharon.

Sharon snaps her eyes open.

“What are you doing?”

Sharon protests. The sex-toy hums in Tarja’s hand. She studies it while she runs her hands over Sharon’s thigh. Sharon moans when Tarja comes too close to her center, and whines when Tarja ghosts her finger on her arousal.

“Say, what are you thinking about when you touch yourself?”

Tarja says, licking Sharon’s arousal off her fingers. Sharon swallows visibly. Her eyes track Tarja’s movements. Tarja changes her sitting position, pushing Sharon’s leg further apart as she bends, her body moving backward. Then she’s in the perfect place to treat Sharon’s pussy with all her attention.

Seeing Tarja—with a vibrator and an intense expression—between her legs does wonders to Sharon. She feels like swimming in a pool of ice with hot lead coursing in her veins. Her senses are hyperaware, but her body is heavy and crusty. Like she could break any second if Tarja gives her any kind of stimulus.

“I…” Realizing Tarja is waiting for an answer, Sharon coerces her lust-filled brain to cooperate, “I think about you kissing me, like what you did in my office.”

“And?”

As an encouragement, Tarja presses open-mouth kisses on Sharon’s inner thighs. She can smell her, matching the same taste in her mouth. Sharon’s toes are pinched together. Her hands sprawled when the ache in her pussy turns into a painful throb. She can’t remember the last time being this turned on.

“You would tease me, but I got wet for you too easily.”

Voice unsteady, Sharon almost sobs when Tarja presses the vibrator on her entrance. Her body jolts but Tarja holds her down.

“Did I make you come hard?”

Observant, Tarja draws the toy upward but never touches Sharon’s clit directly. Sharon buckles. She’s so close to it but Tarja keeps her at the edge. Sharon starts to feel sore with being aroused for so long. Tarja soothes over her pussy with her tongue. Sharon wants to keep her there, but Tarja withdraws as quickly as she adds the friction.

“Yes.” Sharon chokes, her will crumbling, “Yes you did. A lot of times.”

“Really?”

Tarja raises her brows. Her eyes are shrewd. The corner of her lips twitches upwards. The head of the toy finally lands on Sharon’s engorged hood. Sharon cries when the pleasure punctures her lower abdomen like electrical needles.

“Then I better not disappoint.”

With that remark, Tarja presses down in earnest. Sharon’s body snaps into an arch when hot, white light explodes behind her closed eyes. She throws her head back. She wants to scream but she can’t. The muscles of her waist, thigh, hips, core, all wind up tight. The orgasm washed over her painfully. Sharon’s belly spasmed with her pussy squirming around nothing.

But then she is full with Tarja’s lubricated fingers. Sharon screams, thrashing. She’s not quite finished with her high. The intrusion needs adjusting, and Tarja wants that from Sharon. She wants Sharon’s pussy to be filled with three fingers, no matter if she was still sensitive and raw. Because Tarja is greedy. She wants to claim Sharon’s body as hers.

Realizing that sends another voltage of thrill trough Sharon. She wants to shy away from the vibrator, but after she stares into Tarja’s eyes, she knows: Tarja wants another climax from her, and she is going to take it no matter what.

Panting, Sharon wraps her pussy around Tarja’s digits like a good girl she is, her walls still fluttering. Tarja smiles darkly, pleased at Sharon’s effort. Sharon is ruining the sheets. The room smells like them, feminine and tangy with perspiration.

Adjusting around Tarja’s fingers aren’t that hard, but when she starts to move, Sharon groans and rolls her head. Warning sparks off Tarja’s fingers, into Sharon’s system, that another orgasm is about to approach.

The sounds they make are offensive. Dirty. _Sloshes_ and _squelches_ and the vibrator’s hums. Tarja’s brows furrow in concentration. A drop of sweat is gleaming on her hairline. Sharon is so delirious with pleasure that Tarja becomes blurs of magnificent light.

When Sharon finds that she wants the vibrator to be pressed firmer onto her clit, she knows she’s about to combust.

Tarja notices the twitch of Sharon’s face, her lips crooking slightly like she wants to keep her voices down. Then there’s a gush of fluid wetting her fingers, that have been thrusting into Sharon’s pussy dutifully. Sharon bucks her hips. This time the orgasm is approaching nauseatingly slow. But Tarja knows just how to push Sharon over the precipice. She speeds up. She throws the Hitachi away and replaces it with her mouth, sucking Sharon’s swollen clit.

The abrupt changes cause Sharon to throw her head back. She screams. The ripping orgasm crushes her bones, numbing her limbs and senses. For eternity there’s only Tarja’s fingers ramming into her wetness, Tarja’s soft, hot mouth wrapped around her pulsing clit, the abandoned vibrator buzzing in the background. Sharon thought she’ll pass out from the pleasure, but she can’t tear her eyes away from Tarja, who’s working industriously down with her hands, lips and tongue. That sight keeps Sharon in hypnotic sobriety.

When Sharon thinks she might be able to collect her breathing, Tarja has moved up, sweaty, warm and comforting by her side. The closeness of Tarja drags Sharon back to her senses. Sharon realizes she’s been staring at the ceiling, her mind in rare blankness. The vibrator is switched off. It’s all quiet but their breathings, their heartbeats, and the wind knocking against the windowpane. It’s going to take some time for their bodies to cool off. But not long, because the temperature is dropping still.

Tarja studies Sharon’s profile. Her cheeks are red—not ruddy, but the kind that shines with a healthy, natural glow like someone has finished their workout. The lines and wrinkles on her face are evened out with content. Her eyes are bottomless; no light can seem to escape from those chocolatey-browns. Her immaculate hairdo fit for a workday, is now tousled beyond repair. Her makeup is completely ruined. Tarja wonders if Sharon has foreseen this. If she has any idea that their relationship is going to evolve into this stage. Underground-lovers with dubious consents from their spouses. How fucked up is this?

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Sharon asks. There’s sleep in her voice. But she has energy spare to roll around, and look at Tarja.

Tarja expected herself to be worn-out. But the doze-off in her bathtub has somehow restored her strength.

“Nothing major.” Tarja shrugs, smiling faintly, “My mind is in a strange place right now.”

“Geez, at least you can have the ability to think.” Sharon props herself up, boneless, “I think you have just fucked my brains out. It’s a miracle I can still function.”

“Don’t be crude.”

Tarja grins at Sharon’s dramatic expression.

“Don’t be prude.”

“Well, I wasn’t so prude when I was down there, was I?”

Sharon blushes. Tarja chuckles. She brushes away the hair on Sharon’s neck, and tucks a strand behind her ear.

“I really want to shower.” Sharon murmurs, her hand finding Tarja’s and soon their fingers are intertwined. Ring-less. “Do you want to join me, you know, just to make sure I don’t fall asleep in the bathroom?”

Tarja smirks.

“Sure. I’ll make sure you don’t repeat my mistake.”

***

Sharon’s master bathroom is a grand niche carved inside of her room. It has gray porcelain tiles, a shower stall on the left end. The bathtub is on the right. A rug in bohemian patterns is splayed before the sink. The space is two times bigger than the one in Tarja’s house.

The shower panel looks like those in the expensive hotels. The heater is powerful; within a few seconds, Sharon declares it's warm enough. She drags Tarja in the spacious stall. Tarja closes the door behind.

The least emotion Tarja has expected is panic, but when Sharon mutters, “Makeup sex is the worst.”, and starts to scrub her face vehemently with whatever expensive product she’s been using, Tarja grins. Her last trepidation fades away.

They wash separately. There are some quiet, unperturbed lulls amidst their chats—how much they spent on house renovation. How they think which conditioner is best for the winter, which soap is a godsend for summer, and what brand is a hoax that robs money from ignorant celebrity-followers. They reach a common ground of horror, about hair-loss whenever brushing or washing their hair.

Then Sharon asks about Tarja’s tattoo. Tarja explains. She dries herself with a fluffy towel Sharon hands her, and offers to give Sharon a better look.

With a suggestive tone and a raised-brow.

“You’ll be the death of me.”

Shaking her head, Sharon kisses Tarja impulsively on the mouth. Her nipples pebble against Tarja’s warm skin. The curves of their body fit, one a few inches tall than another. Tarja kisses back idly. Her breath hitches when Sharon pushes her to the glass door. The towel drops from Tarja’s hand.

The glass is cold, even with the vapor misting onto its surface. They are no doubt going to leave lewd marks on it.

Tarja’s stomach churns with residual passion. She finds herself too needy to say, that shower-sex is really not the best idea for people their age. Sharon’s face is void of makeup. It makes her younger. Her lashes are long and curly, shadowing her eyes into different shades of brown. Her hair, now black as the night, drips water onto Tarja’s skin, each trickle like a warm wet kiss.

“Are you keeping score?”

Tarja breathes against Sharon’s lips. She darts out her tongue, and licks away a drop of water on Sharon’s smiling mouth.

“Maybe.”

With that Sharon leans in. Tarja thoughts she’s going to kiss her. She parts her mouth, then stifles an exclamation when Sharon bites on her lower lip, nibbling it with just a bit too much pressure. But Tarja is greedy. She will take it.

It’s steamy like a sauna. Their skin pulsates in the heat. Head angling upwards, Tarja hooks her hands around Sharon’s neck, and urges the taller woman to kiss her. The hot, humid air doesn’t clog Tarja’s senses. In fact, her system has fallen into a constant yearn, insatiable for the warmth of the other hour-glassed form.

Sharon reads Tarja’s body language like an open book. Naked and damp, she presses Tarja’s petite body against the glass, and drowns her with another series of kisses. Warmth turns into fever. Tarja gathers Sharon’s hair to attack her uncovered throat. Sharon rolls her head to find the corner of Tarja’s neck. She caresses the hickey she left. Her shampoo smells better on Tarja.

Tarja alternates with nips and kisses on Sharon’s skin. Sharon is more than willing to leave more marks behind. Fever turns into wanton. They find themselves searching blindly for friction. They part for a nanosecond. With a hungry look, they find a way to gain pleasure together. Laps against wet centers, they set to work.

Sharon grinds. Tarja pushes. They create a rhythm, their movements messy and effective. If Tarja moans she’s rewarded with a choked sigh. If Sharon’s motions quicken, Tarja would grab her thigh tighter, lest they slip. It’s the sounds they make and the beating of their hearts, that makes this work. Together they pour their stamina into the music they’re making. Overture to curtain call.

The crest of the orgasm rushes into their veins. Tarja peaks first. Her hips jerk as she clings to Sharon’s strong, taut thigh. She let out a series of wails; they never sound so good in Sharon’s ears. They spur her on. Sharon moans into Tarja’s neck. The pit of her belly drops low, then she is coming with Tarja. They hold onto each other so tightly, that they are no doubt leaving prints over each other’s skin.

***

It’s inevitable they take the second shower, drowsy, then sleep in the same bed. They are too tired to dry their hair. Not to mention putting on any clothes.

Sharon is struggling to stay awake. She is memorizing how Tarja looks after falling asleep, after the promises and orgasms. But the gravity of sleep is too strong. There are only bits and pieces: the soft of Tarja’s ivory cheeks against the moonlit pillow. The easy, relaxed bow around her lips and eyes. The elegant curve of her brows. The messy black hair bundling around the hollow of her neck. The faint smile hanging on her face.

Sharon smiles along and gives into the droopiness of her eyes. Tomorrow, she’ll ask about Tarja’s fight with Marcelo in detail. Tarja is probably going to ask what Sharon has told Rob about her. And her weird smoking habit, too.

But tomorrow is tomorrow’s business to bear.

_~FIN~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun writing this. Long live Sharja.  
> Tell me what you think! Kudos, comments and suggestions are welcomed!


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